


Gently Rise and Softly Call

by Oak_Leaf



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Spoilers Up To Episode 156, feel free to read Azu's intrusive thoughts in the voice of Alex Jander, that's certainly how I wrote it, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oak_Leaf/pseuds/Oak_Leaf
Summary: After Sasha's letter, they grieve and reminisce in their own ways.
Relationships: Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam & Oscar Wilde, Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam & Azu & Sasha Racket, Sasha Racket & Oscar Wilde, Sasha Racket & Zolf Smith
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	Gently Rise and Softly Call

Azu lights a candle. And then she lights two more. As the first burns, she chants the mourning hymn for Grizzop, a plea that Aphrodite's love may still warm the departed soul and that she will comfort those left behind with opportunities for new love. The words are familiar. At the temple in Cairo, they had not been able to save every patient that came to their steps. A sad fact, but a natural course of life. 

The hymn feels different this time. Now, the words catch and snag on a jagged spot in Azu's chest, a hollow that carved itself out when Grizzop's fingers slipped from hers as he and Sasha fell away.

"In love I held you, in love I let you go," Azu chants, soft and low.

 _You let them go, t_ hat sharp hollow murmurs, soft and low.

Azu turns her attention to the second candle. She doesn't know if Sasha found an alter to worship at in the course of her life. (A long, long life, by the sounds of the letter.) And so she chants to Aphrodite again for her.

Azu tries to picture the young woman she knew grown old and surrounded by children. Not so surprising a fate, when she thinks about it. Sasha carried an unexpected amount of love, tucked into quiet parts of herself like so many knives into coat and boots, and Azu hopes Sasha knew how loved she was in returned by those she left behind.

The third candle, Azu lights to Artemis. She is unfamiliar with their prayers and rituals, and so only says, "Watch over him. He served you well." The goddess of the hunt, like her paladin, has always been more action than words, after all. Azu hopes the prayer is enough.

She watches the wax melt down and the wicks burn out. She draws a deep breath and lets it go.

* * *

  
Hamid gathers two fresh glasses and the botte of whiskey borrowed from Oscar's desk, and then he pauses in the quiet hallway of the inn, uncertain where to go. He doesn't want to drink alone. It's not right to drink alone at times like this; you eat and drink together at wakes, you mourn together. And this is not anything so official as a wake or a funeral, but that's the only word for the feeling that hangs over the evening in the aftermath of Sasha's letter.

He should find Azu--but she's gone to the shrine outside the inn. He could go to Oscar--but he's secluded himself back in his office already despite the late hour. He should see if Zolf will talk--but he isn't sure what he would say to Zolf. 

Hamid sinks down to the floor, knees to his chest, and uncaps the whiskey. He pours himself a finger or two in the smaller glass. The memory comes to him of Sasha during the train ride to Dover. Drunk on free wine and the confusion of seeing the horizon unobscured by city for the first time, her face flushed and her eyes wide, leaning over Zolf to peer put the window and the world going by outside.

He sips slowly.

There's a scurrying around the corner of the hall, claws tapping against the wooden floor. When Hamid glances over he sees scaled faces quietly keeping watch on him. He sighs. Hamid, king of the kobolds. What would Grizzop think of that? He can imagine the paladin chiming in with Zolf to chastise him for this abuse power. It isn't like he even wants the power. He doesn't. He just wants to help them, and they're so determined to treat Hamid like some kind of royalty, and there's nothing he can do to stop them.

What's more, they saved the kobolds from something so much worse. Surely Grizzop, with all his moral outrage, would understand that Hamid's reluctant authority is nothing compared to what the kobolds endured already.

How would Grizzop, with all his moral outrage, have reacted to Hamid fireballing innocent kobolds.

(He only came here to Japan, only went to the Shoin Institute in order to help the Harlequins so that they would in turn help him find his friends. Grizzop is dead, 2,000 years gone. Sasha found a happy life and peace. Where does that leave him?)

Hamid drains the rest of his drink. Then he rises to his feet, and with his whiskey and glasses, he pads down the hall to knock on Zolf's door.

* * *

  
Wilde sits at his desk, letters and records and notes spread across its surface as he reviews each one in light of the scant new information from Shoin's institute, and he notices, suddenly, that he is hummimg. When that started, he usn't sure. It's an old melody, one he hasn't heard sung since he left Dublin. Oscar does not sing it now, but then, he doesn't sing much these days. With the anti-maguc cuffs so snug against his ankles, what would be the point? Lyrics feel so small without the bardic spells woven into them, and an empty tune doesn't turn a knife or stop the infection from creeping through your companions.

Still. He leans back in his chair for a moment and rubs the tired muscles in his face. He continues to hum, focusing on the lilting, melancholic notes. It makes for an adequate distraction from his reading that goes nowhere and the memory of the letter now returned to a drawer in his desk. 

He had his lapse of grief two weeks ago. When he first read Sasha's letter alone in his office, with Barnes and Carter out picking up supplies and the others off on their mission at the institute. He let himself weep and shake, and then he packed all that away, tied off with a black bow in some compartment of his mind as he returned his focus to the mess of the world around him. He doesn't need to have himself a second little break down. He can't afford to do that again, because then there won't be any stopping it.

So Oscar sits and hums idly, and feels tge vibrations of the song where he traces the scar across his cheek. And he does not think about a shadow where a young woman all scars and sharp points might be, or red eyes burning as bright as flaming arrows. 

The words of the song come to him. He doesn't waste his breath on singing, but he lets them play in his mind.

_Bhuel cibe saibhreas a bhí agam, Tá sé caite ar mo cháirde dhíl; Agus cibe dochar a rinne mé, Dom fhéin a rinne mé an dochar sin._

Oscar does not remember Grizzop with ears tilted in determination, declaring that you look after the pack. Oscar does not wince at the memory of certain remarks made at Sasha's expense right up until Grizzop extracted payment from him a blow aimed a little bit higher than Oscar's knees. He does not remember Grizzop watching Sasha's back in a fight, and he does not rember the words from her letter. "He took a spear meant for me."

_Is na rudai suarach a rinne mé, Tá siad dearmadta gan mé sa chré._

Oscar regrets those unkind remarks to a woman who was hurting and afrsid and counting down her days. He would take them back, if he could, and he hopes she knew that.

_Só líon go barr an gloine slán;_

He does not recall puns over breakfast and Sasha's self-pleased smile; he does imagine a child out there in the past somewhere sharing his name. But he thinks those things mean she knew how much he came to care for her.

_Oíche mhaith agus aoibhneas daoibh go léir, Oíche mhaith agus aoibhneas daoibh go léir._

Oscar doesn't need to force down memories of Damascus--it's all a blur on its own. Weak and sleep-deprieved and with bleeding from his ears of all places, there's only the hazy recollection of Grizzop angrily dragging him to a cleric and scolding him for not taking care of himself. That was the funny thing, as usually Grizzop was angry *l _at_ Oscar, not for him. Oscar's clearest memory comes after his nap in the anti-magic cell, and by then, Grizzop had left. 

Oscar does not think about how he would have been dead there in Damascud if not for Grizzop's intervention. He very carefully does not think how Grizzop died doing just what he did then, and what he always did. Looking after the pack.

_Só líon go barr an gloine slán; Oíche mhaith agus aoibhneas daoibh go léir, Oíche mhaith agus aoibhneas daoibh go léir._

Oscar reaches for his whiskey and then curses when he realizes Hamid left with it. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and turns back to his work.

  
  


* * *

Cel enters the kitchen, in search of--well, they aren't sure what yet. Something? Something edible. Something edible for the gastro-digestive systems of both elf and kobold, because they did get up in the middle of the night because they are feeling a bit peckish, but then they did spy a pair of kobolds stationed outside what they assume to be the little guy, Hamid's door. Presumably on guard duty, at least that's what it looks like and what would make sense, given the kobold's behavior towards Hamid. And when Cel asked the two if the wanted a snack, they did nod. Or at least, they think they asked if the two wanted snacks? Cel's draconic isn't quite up to snuff just yet, and funny thing, in the kobold dialect the word "snack" is pretty darn close to the word for "bug". So maybe the kobolds actually thought they were asking if they should check for bugs! Who knows!

Anyway, here they are. Sneaking into the inn's kitchen in the wee, wee hours of the morn in search of an after-midnight snack. If you can call it sneaking; they've never been particulsrly stealthy.

But they must have gotten better recently, since Mister Smith doesn't even seem to notice them when Cel steps into the kitchen. One of the lamps is burning low on the wall, and darkvision notwithstanding, they almost don't stop Mister Smith himself. He's just--stood there. At the stove with a pot, holding a spoon. Just _holding_ the spoon, not stirring or tasting or dishing out whatever he's making. He's standing, holding a spoon, staring off into the wall above the stovetop, unmoving.

It's kind of spooky, actually, so Cel clears their throat and steps a little heavier than they normally would.

That startles him.

"Hot chocolate!" Mister Smith all but shouts. The spoon drops from his hand and into the pot with a small splash. Cel watches him fish it back out. "Just, uh, just making some hot chocolate." 

Cel smiles. "Ooh, that sounds delicious! You wouldn't happen to have made enough to share, would you? I just was going to see if there were any leftovers in the pantry, but I gotta say, some hot cocoa is just think for a late night snack."

Mister Smith glances at them over his shoulder, and he looks tired. Eyes dark and heavy, and forehead creased. Understandable given the time of night. "Uh, yeah," he replies, "s'fine. I made more than enough. Thought something hot mug might do me some, and maybe see if it'll help me get Wilde into bed. Silly bugger will be up all night."

Cel's eyebrows raise and then waggle meaningfully at that. But Mister Smith doesn't seem notice, both the waggling and what he said, so they let it slide.

"Sounds like a plan! I promised two of the kobolds I'd bring them back something. The poor little buddies are stood up all night on guard duty. And I'm sure a drink will be hood for Mister Wilde, too. Hot cocoa--or hot chocolate, I can never remember what the difference is--is an excellent soporific."

Mister Smith frowns and says, "A what?"

"It--hm, is that not the right word? Maybe I'm thinking of French--or is it Latin? Anyway, I meant it's good at making you sleep."

"Oh. Right. Well, if you still want any leavings in the pantry, you can take 'em from what's on the middle shelf. Don't touch my tubers, I'm saving those for tomorrow." 

"You have my word." They grin and salute, then turn to the pantry to rustle up snacks. 

A few minutes later they emerge with a handful of fruit and half a meat pie that is probably getting on so is best eaten now anyway. Mister Smith has already poured out five mugs of the cocoa, they see, and they busy themself tucking fruit into pockets and balancing the pie in the crook of an elbow so that they can carry their three mugs back down the hall in ome go.

"Cel," Mister Smith starts. "You...you speak Latin, you said?"

"Well," Cel answers, not looking up, "I have a passing understanding. I don't like to let it get around given, well, you, everyone thinks Latin and they think Rome, which is not great! But there's still so many scientific phrases and compounds named in Latin, and--and it had its seeds planted in so many languages, so it's only useful to know a bit of it. Why do you ask?"

Mister Smith clears his throat once, twice. "Do you...do you know what Sagax means?"

"Oh, well, there's a couple different translations? 'Perceptive', or I think 'wise' might be another one, although 'keen-witted' might be more accurate. Or "sagacious", which, you can see is one of those words with the Latin sorta hiding in it." They carefully pick up the three mugs, pleased not to spill any yet, and look up. "Why do you ask?"

Mister Smith is turned away from them again. "Just...just curious." His voice sounds awfully hoarse. That hot cocoa really will do him some good. "You have a good night there, Cel." And then he steps out of kitchen.

"Oh! Wait, Mister Smith," Cel hisses after him trying not to be loud enough to wake the whole inn. "Mister Smith, you forgot your cocoa!"

But he's already gone.

* * *

  
Zolf perches on his bed, bent over double, and he feels like a rope pulled taunt and stretched beyond its reach, near the point of breaking.

_Stick with us and we'll watch your back._

_Take me, not her_!

Y _ou're better off with me gone_.

_Meeting you two was payment enough._

He read the letter, after the others had gone. And from the sound of it, Sasha found herself a life a damned sight better than she would have returned to if she had come back from the ruins of Rome with the others. All things considered. So why does it hurt so much to think she's gone and to know that Hamid's fool optimism that they could get her back really was for nothing?

Zolf presses his forehead to knees where the mechanics of his prosthetics connect to his flesh, digs his fingers in his hair, and he weeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "The Parting Glass", which is the song featured in Wilde's scene. I started writing this specifically so that I could imagine Wilde singing it with Hozier's voice, and then I character analysis'd myself into a corner where he doesn't sing. :[
> 
> I just caught up and I'm still heartbroken over Sasha and Grizzop, so this is how I cope.


End file.
